


Spies and Recreation

by Nanimok



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Horny Alex Rider, Humor, M/M, MI6!Yassen, mockumentary au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: “I’m pretty sure this is Gregorovich’s midlife crisis,” Smithers says to the camera. He counts his fingers. “A drastic career change. A new haircut. A boy half his age. You can bet that a shiny, brand-spanking new car is next. If he isn't already spanking the boytoy, that is.”(Mockumentary AU)
Relationships: Derek Smithers/Wolf, One-sided Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 31
Kudos: 186





	Spies and Recreation

In a blue-toned, low-lit room, Blunt fixes the collar of his suit before looking at the camera.

“Oh, there’s no doubt that John’s boy is brilliant,” Blunt says. “He’s been trained by John himself. Rumours are that John signed him up for spy work the moment he learned how to toddle. But of course that’s an exaggeration. Alex Rider has been employed with MI6 ever since he was sixteen—paid at least or more than minimum wage as per dictated by British law, please jot that down. John’s boy has never acted out in his long history of employment with our department. He had even managed to convert a high-profile enemy into an ally. A feat not even his father could accomplish.”

Someone off camera asks Blunt, “Does his father work in the same department? That must be contentious.”

“Yes,” Blunt says. “John works in the same department as Alex. Their relationship was not contentious until Gregorovich came into the picture.”

“Gregorovich is the high-profile enemy that was converted, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Blunt’s mouth thins into a grimace. “Unfortunately, he was.”

“Why is it unfortunate?”

Blunt purses his lips. He takes a second to consider his reply. “You will have to see for yourselves, I suppose,” he says. “It’s very hard to miss.”

* * *

Back in the staff room, Alex and Yassen topple over on the couch. After a bout of quiet staring and a hand of biting remarks being traded, Alex pounces from the end of his table. They somehow make their way across the room, hands roaming down each other’s backsides. Belts are unbuckled. Buttons are popped. Alex moans as Yassen squeezes a handful of ass.

Smithers, the department’s technology expert, walks in, takes one look at the couch, and promptly walks out.

The moans and thumps grow louder as the camera crew follows Smithers in his retreat.

* * *

“I’m pretty sure this is Gregorovich’s midlife crisis,” Smithers says to the camera. He counts his fingers. “A drastic career change. A new haircut. A boy half his age. You can bet that a shiny, brand-spanking new car is next. If he isn't already spanking the boytoy, that is.”

* * *

“Yassen wouldn’t buy a new car,” a messy-haired Alex Rider says. “It’s just not his style.”

He works on buttoning up his shirt as he casually talks to the camera. Some buttons are clearly missing. There’s a dark mouth-shaped bruise at the base of his neck.

The camera crew diplomatically refrains from commenting that it’s inside out.

“Yassen’s more into the drama of things,” Alex says. “If you want to win him over, you’d need something bigger—more grand—like a yacht or a helicopter. You have no idea how many [beep] I had to promise him just to get him in England. That doesn’t count the [beep] [beep] he wanted in exchange for him not to shoot anyone. I even had to resort to [beep] him in his [beep] as he [beep] me and [beep] [beep] [beep] with a whisk! Can you believe that? And that was before we [a five-second long segment of beeping where Alex’s lips continue to move and Alex resorts to miming with hand gestures].”

Alex then breaks out into a wide, soft smile. It highlights the red dusting his cheeks and the gentle curve of his eyes.

“He’s such a romantic,” Alex says fondly. 

* * *

“I just wanted a cuppa,” Smithers says. “Now I’m just too scared to think of what they’ve done with the kitchen equipment. A lot goes missing after they’re done, you know?”

* * *

Ignoring the blurred, pixelated-figures on the couch, Martin Wilby pockets a couple of spoons into his pants.

* * *

Yassen Gregorovich stares into the camera. His suit is back to its pristine figure as before. He has been staring into the camera for a solid ten minutes.

He has only blinked twice and counting. 

One brave crewman swallows. “Did you have a good lunch—Gregorovich—sir!” They misguidedly salute him.

Yassen thinks on it. He taps his finger against the table in thought.

Then, to the extreme horror of the camera crew, a small smile breaks out of his face.

“It was nice,” he says, and nothing more.

* * *

Alex leans back on his chair, feet propped up in front of him, twisting the bottle of coke open in his hands with a crackling pop. “Blunt’s not going to say anything,” he says, holding his drink up. “Cheers.”

He sips his drink and he settles into his seat with an audible sigh.

“Yeah, Blunt’s letting me and Yassen do whatever we want,” Alex says. “It’d be a shame, after all, if he lost his job in disgrace and the whole department got restructured due to the unethical employment and treatment of a minor under their care.” Alex pauses. “Hypothetically, of course.”

The camera zooms into Alex’s face.

His eyes are curved. His smile is absolutely dripping with smug.

* * *

“It’s inappropriate,” Tulip Jones says. “It’s absolutely inappropriate.”

Someone off-camera asks, “You’re not a fan of Gregorovich?”

“No,” Jones says. “I’ve expressed my displeasure quite clearly. What is going on is a clear abuse of power and authority. Just because Gregorovich is a high-profile asset, does not mean he can do whatever he wants! I’ve no idea what went through Blunt’s mind when he let the order through. At least, I’m not alone. I know for a fact that Wolf, the head of our elite tactical team, takes a problem with it as well. He will be having a word with Gregorovich before the week is finished.”

* * *

At the mention of his name, Alex chokes on his sip of Coke. He coughs, slamming a fist against his chest, and straightens up from his chair.

“Wolf’s back?” Alex asks, eyes wide and hands rapidly fixing the collar of his shirt.

* * *

“It’s no secret that Alex used to have a massive crush on Wolf,” Smithers says. “Still has, I suppose. He used to follow Wolf around like a pup. Took every word he said like the bible. Crawley has some bets going on for the inevitable moment where Wolf and Gregorovich finally clash—I was just in charge of the popcorn, you see. But who could blame him? Alex was young and impressionable and alone. Wolf really looked out for him when Alex first started. He was a fountain of endless patience as he showed Alex the ropes. Not to mention that he has a way of looking at you like he’s seeing through to your soul. And he listens with his whole heart. It’s part of his magnetism. The man’s a wordsmith, at times, he knows just what to say to really lift up your spirits. He has the most rumbling voice. You can never get enough of it—”

* * *

“I don’t like him,” Wolf says, frowning at the camera.

* * *

“—Not to mention that he’s an astounding leader with a brilliant tactical mind—oh, where was I? Right,” Smithers says, fiddling with his hat. “Right. The betting pool. I’ve got a good amount of quid in it, and I know for a fact that Blunt does as well. Almost everyone in the office—with the exception of Jones and Wolf—has got a hand in it. Just—”

Smithers breaks off to look behind him. After seeing that the blinds are closed, Smithers leans forward. “Don’t tell John Rider about it, alright?”

* * *

“Gregorovich,” Wolf says, cornering him in the staff room. “A moment if you will.”

On the other side of the big glass window, the whole office holds its breath. Crawley slips out a little black book from his coat jacket. Smithers opens the lowest drawer on his table and lifts up a bag of popcorn.

Yassen pauses from where he’s attempting to spoon sugar into two identical white mugs with a tiny fork. “You are Wolf, yes?”

Wolf crosses his arms. His shirt sleeves bulge from his biceps. The camera zooms in as Smithers drops popcorn from his mouth.

“I am,” Wolf says. “I want to talk about Cub.”

Yassen slowly puts the tiny fork down. “Cub?”

“Yes,” Wolf says. “Cub.”

Yassen tilts his head. “You also taught him how to fly the helicopter, no?”

“I did,” Wolf says. “He asked me to fly him around London.” The camera zooms into Wolf’s face. “We flew the whole afternoon together.” Even closer. “He insisted.”

They stare at each other. Yassen steps away from his mugs.

* * *

Two minutes later, a figure is thrown through the staff room glass window. They land on the nearest workstation—Wilby’s unfortunately—and tips over Wilby’s desk, resulting in piles of cutlery clattering on the ground.

Wilby yelps. He scrambles to gather all the silverware back into his drawers.

Crawley scribbles furiously into his book.

Wolf, the unfortunate figure being thrown, grabs the nearest utensil he can find—a fork—and jumps back on his feet.

Yassen jumps through the broken window. His boots crunch on the pile of broken glass.

They circle each other. Eyes lock and narrow as they contemplate their next moves.

Alex runs out of Gregorovich’s office in a—tight, frilly French maid costume and black lace garters. He is distinctively not wearing any underwear. There is a long expanse of golden, tanned skin. The camera crew tactfully redirects the camera on to his face.

“Guys,” Alex says, flailing his lace-gloved arms. “Stop—fighting! Yassen, no!”

“Cub, what on earth are you wearing?” Wolf asks in horror.

“Oh,” Alex says. “Wolf, hi!” His face immediately turns red. He’s shy all of a sudden, completely forgetting the fact that he’s been making obscene noises in Gregorovich’s office loud enough for the whole department to hear before Gregorovich took his coffee break. “Uhm,” Alex says, combing his hair back. He straightens out his skirt. “Do you like it?”

Yassen almost audibly hisses and slides out the knife he was hiding in his boot.

Alex throws his arms out. “Yassen, wait—”

* * *

“I still don’t like him,” Wolf says, hours later, holding a bag of peas to his right eye. There are numerous small cuts on his face. The glass behind him is still broken, leaving a clear view of the office space. Wilby is still collecting his silverware from the floor.

From what the camera crew saw for themselves, however, Yassen Gregorovich did not come out of this unscathed as well. Alex took him to the infirmary to patch him up. They’ve been suspiciously quiet ever since.

Just then, the door knob turns. Wolf flips the fork back into his hand, ready for to shank Gregorovich if he comes through the door—

“Erm, sorry,” Smithers says. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Wolf huffs, but he visibly relaxes. He puts the fork back on the table.

Their eyes lock on to each other.

“Would you be interested in dinner sometime?” Smithers asks. 

* * *

“As you can see,” Blunt says drily. “Not a single dull day in our offices. Make no mistakes however, our department have neutralised or contributed to the neutralisation of more than seventy-three national threats. It is with utmost pride that we—”

Blunt is interrupted by his watch beeping. He angles his watch inside his body.

Blunt coughs. “Pardon me.” He stands up and walks to the door. “Her Majesty calls.” 

As Blunt leaves the room, a brave cameraperson breaks the resulting silence with, “Wasn’t that the logo for Domino’s Pizza?”

* * *

"I know that John and Gregorovich are quite close," Jones says. "John Rider was a big reason Gregorovich decided to work with us in the first place. But surely, he wouldn't approve of his relationship with Alex, he only just graduated secondary school a couple of months ago."

* * *

_John Rider could not be contacted for an interview. His current location is undisclosed and highly classified. His return date is unknown._

* * *

"But I suppose we are also to blame for always assigning work out of the country." Jones frowns. "It's just part of the job, though. John Rider is considerably one of the most talented field agents we have. Espionage in particular is where John's specialty lies. Obviously we utilise our agents as best as possible. Maybe Ian can do something about it, but... well..."

* * *

Seeing that Ian and a chatting co-worker were heading his way, Yassen checks the walls, floors, furniture and length of the corridor. He finds no furniture in sight which could potentially hide him from view.

Yassen quickly makes his way to the window.

The camera shifts to a handheld device shooting from the parking lot. It zooms on a third story window where a figure climbs on the window sill and shimmies himself onto a thin piece of architecture running from one window to the next.

Yassen waits there until two figures pass by the window. There is a beat of stillness—two beats—before Yassen makes his way back inside the corridor.

* * *

"Ian isn't the most observant when it comes to Yassen Gregorovich," Jones admits. "He goes a little gaga whenever Gregorovich's in the picture. I don't get it. Ian almost has the same credentials as Gregorovich, yet, he's in undeserved awe whenever Gregorovich's in the room. I swear—there's just something about Gregorovich that drives all the Riders a bit silly."

* * *

"Fifty quid says that Ian has a crush on Yassen," Crawley says.

* * *

"Yassen."

Upon hearing Ian's voice, Alex and Yassen rips their mouths away from each other. Alex quickly scans his surroundings while Yassen buttons up his shirt, and upon spying the nearest closet door, half a corridor away, Alex sprints and locks himself in it.

Yassen casually leans on the door with one hand behind his head.

"Hey," Ian Rider says, smiling wider than the Thames. "You free on Thursday?"

Yassen blinks, pretending to think. "No," he says slowly. "Unfortunately, I have other commitments.”

“What about Friday?”

“It spans to next Monday,” Yassen says. “Why?"

"Well,” Ian says. “I was wondering if you were up for a drink at the pub but I guess if you're busy..."

Yassen Gregorovich is a man of many talents. He has the dual talent of displaying the generous amount of enigma nature has given him one moment and looking as unremarkable as a dying houseplant in the next. He does this now. Yassen tilts his head, and gives Ian a regretful, apologetic smile. He can see the moment Ian becomes completely dazzled and he can see the camera crew readjust their light settings from the corner of his eyes.

"This commitment is very important, sadly," Yassen says. "Another time, maybe?"

"Alright," Ian concedes, but at the mention of a possible future, he leaves the hallway with a spring to his step.

Yassen waits a minute before it's truly clear. Then, he knocks on the closet door. "Alex? He's gone."

Shuffling noises and a thud. Then a volley of hushed whispers before the door swings open with such a force that Yassen has to step back. His hand automatically settle on the Grach strapped to his chest.

A red-faced, wide-eyed, and light-headed Alex stumbles into his arms.

"Do you mind?" Smithers says, red-faced himself as he closes the closet door.

Yassen is sure that he sees a flash of a beard, and arms too big to be Smithers's reaching down for a pair of pants. But Yassen pays the operative who poses the biggest threat to his and Alex's relationship little mind. Instead, he dabs the sweat off Alex's forehead and ushers him into the nearest room with an air conditioner.

* * *

“Ian,” Yassen says, with great exasperation.

Yassen exhales through his nose. His lips press into a straight line as he puts his hands together in front of his face.

There’s nothing but silence in the interview room.

Finally, Yassen sighs. "I was very drunk," he says.

* * *

“It figures that Yas is always pretty busy,” Ian says. “He’s an internationally renowned specialist. MI6 is absolutely lucky to have a man of his calibre working for their department. He’s almost like the resident cryptid. You’re lucky if you can catch him in his office. And of course, he’s even more busy now that he’s kind enough to supervise Alex on his missions—”

A crew member, in the midst of sipping from their water bottle, starts choking mid sip. They break into coughs, and several production members around them start patting their backs.

Ian then frowns. “Are they okay? It’s very important to sip slowly when you’re exceptionally thirsty else you’ll choke.” Ian shakes his head. “Alex does this all the time. He just swallows without thinking and he always ends up gagging—and there they go again. Someone, please. Should we get them to an infirmary?”

* * *

Ian swings the door to Yassen’s office and finds Alex sitting in the swivelling, padded seat. “Oh,” Ian says. “Hey, Alex.”

“Hey, Ian.” Alex stretches his arms in front of the desk, rolling his chair in. His face is red. His shirt is unbuttoned to his chest. The camera zooms in on the belt tossed over the back of the chair. He rests his elbows on the table and cups his face. “What are you up to? I was just—uhm…”

“Yeah, I’m good, thanks,” Ian says idly, searching round the room. “Alex… You’ve seen Yas around anywhere? Anywhere at all?”

Alex scrunches his nose. “Yas?”

“Yassen,” Ian corrects himself. “Wilby mentioned that he was in his office.”

“[beep]ing Wilby,” Alex mutters his breath.

“What was that?”

“So nice of Wilby,” Alex says. “He is so helpful. Damn.”

“Quite,” Ian says. “Amazing how helpful he can be when he’s not hoarding all the cutlery.”

“He does what now?”

“Back to the subject,” Ian says. “Yassen?”

“What about Yassen?”

“Wasn’t he here?”

“Who?” Alex grips the armrest of his chair suddenly. “Yassen?”

“Have you seen him? Wilby said he was just here?”

“No! He—uh—he got called away,” Alex says. “Suddenly. It was so sudden.”

“Oh,” Ian says, visibly deflating. “Did he say where?”

Alex’s face twists until one eye is twitching. “Like, in life?”

“Alex.” Ian crosses his arms. “Just because I’m your uncle doesn’t mean that you’re allowed to not take me seriously.”

Alex jolts from his seat. “I am! I mean—” He instantly slackens. “He just said he needed to go. Nowhere specific. Have you tried checking with dad?”

“Is he coming back today? I thought he’s been delayed.”

“Could be. Maybe that’s where Yassen went,” Alex offers. “You should check with Blunt or Crawley. They’ll probably know where to find him.”

“Huh.” Ian nods. “Thanks for that.” Ian moves to close the door, but he stops himself. “Say, you alright over that? You look a little feverish.”

“I’m fine,” Alex says, fidgeting in his seat. “I’m totally fine. I… just went on a run before this. Out to the park and back.”

Ian glances at the window. “In the rain?”

“It’s good training,” Alex says. “Basically a free shower. I’m just cooling down.”

“But… you were just out in the rain?”

“I heat up very quickly,” Alex says. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Ian purses his lips. “No, actually. I think that’s—”

A hollow thud interrupts him. The camera zooms in on the desk in front of Alex.

“Ow,” Alex says, a full two seconds later. “… My knee. Shouldn’t have had too much caffeine before my run, huh? It’s a good thing I’m already sitting down… giving it a good rest…”

“…Okay?”

“Okay,” Alex says. “Great.”

“Great,” Ian says. “Alright then.” He nods to Alex. “See you at dinner.”

He moves to close the door and Alex melts back into the chair, probably in relief, but he stiffens again when Ian pauses at the door, narrows his eyes, and angles up his nose.

Ian slides the pen out of his pocket. He takes two suspicious steps inside the room.

The curve on Alex’s throat bobs up and down.

Walking towards the other side of the door, he picks the lacy, pale-pink jockstrap hanging on the doorknob with his pen.

Alex opens his mouth. He closes his mouth straight after. “I can explain,” he says.

Ian gives Alex a knowing look. The camera zooms in as Alex slumps in his seat.

“No need,” Ian says. “Smithers knows better than to leave his paraphernalia lying around.”

 _Paraphernalia_ , Alex mouths incredulously.

“Although I thought he wouldn’t be reckless enough to be using Yassen’s office while Yassen’s gone but I guess I was wrong.”

Alex blinks. “Yeah… Smither’s… he’s a little wild. I guess, I’m just too embarrassed to bring it up in front of him.”

“Like I said, there is no need,” Ian says. “I will do it for you. You’re a good kid, Alex.”

Which is the last thing he says before he finally shuts the door behind him.

* * *

Smug, Ian taps the side of his forehead. “I bet Smithers hadn’t banked on me recognising his matching garter set,” Ian says. “People always said that I’ve got a keen eye. But I think it’s just the Rider family instincts. Nothing gets by us when we’re on the job.”

* * *

Through the badly drawn blinds of Yassen’s office, the camera zooms in as Yassen’s head pops up from under his desk.

* * *

_John Rider continues to be unavailable for the interview. A voice message is left by the production crew. It is highly implied that it will never be answered and his phone will be destroyed upon return._

* * *

“I’m pretty sure Yassen was in love with my dad at one point,” Alex says. “I don’t how else you’d describe it. My dad is pretty larger-than-life, in ‘as secretive about it as you can get’ kind of way. Yassen would basically just wax poetry about all the amazing ways which dad was awesome and fundamentally changed him when they first met. When Yassen was first starting out, I know that. He said that dad had one of the biggest impacts on his life.”

A brave camera person clears their throat and mumbles a question.

“Does it bother me that Yassen used to have a thing for my dad?” Alex repeats, scratching the back of his head. “I mean—yeah, a little bit? It’s kind of weird to think of my dad like that, first of all. He and mum are bad enough at home, always snogging like teenagers when they think I’m not looking. But I don’t know…” He shrugs. “The past’s the past, I guess. He doesn’t mind my crush on Wolf, so I suppose I shouldn’t mind his crush on my dad.”

Alex frowns. He seems dissatisfied with his own answer. 

“But hey,” Alex says. “At least it’s not uncle Ian. If I pretend to be my dad while Yassen’s [beep][beep] me… it’s like a double daddy kink, right?”

* * *

Jones sits across the desk from Yassen, a folder opened on her lap. From her side of the table, she’s unable to see Yassen’s workstation. If she did, she would realise that despite Yassen’s mildly-engaged-but-still-blank expression, he is surfing through the Bed, Bath, and Beyond website for some hand towels.

“Alright, then,” Jones taps her finger on the page. “Here. What about this one?”

“Hmm?”

“A ten course meal at The Clove Club, Shoreditch Town Hall.” 

“Fuel for the body,” Yassen says. “Very necessary.”

“How about the beluga caviar?”

“Part of the cover.”

“A Springback forty-year old single malt whisky?”

“Critical to the successful negotiation.”

“Full body wax in Amsterdam?”

Yassen doesn’t reply. He only smiles. 

Footage briefly cuts to Alex Rider’s very bare and very pixelated bottom half during Yassen’s tussle with Wolf. 

Jones blinks as she shakes her head. “Alright. Inappropriate but,” Jones says, “let’s move on. How about this: five nights stay at The Swissôtel Stamford in Singapore.”

“Alex needed more time to recuperate after his ordeal.” 

“Oh, I bet,” Jones says. “Four hundred US dollars for the Waldorf Chicago Elysian cleanse?”

“It was exceptional exfoliation,” Yassen says, making a workstation note to visit the place again once he accrues enough annual leave.

Jones closes her files with a sharp inhale. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

Yassen doesn’t even pretend to look trite. He shrugs as he opens the message notification on his work station. He receives a barrage of pixelated pictures. To which, without a single crack on his expression, he sends a kissy emoji back at Alex. 

“May I remind you that the company credit card is for necessary mission expenditures. Not for dinners in,” Jones squints on the page, “ _Noma,_ Copenhagen, Denmark—blimey. How is that even possible? Even making reservations there for government sanctioned missions was an absolute nightmare.”

Footage cuts to the owner of _Noma_ flicking the lights on in his living room, and jumping as he finds Yassen casually waiting in a lounge in front of the door. 

Yassen shrugs. “I can be persuasive.”

“I’m sure you can,” Jones says. “Listen here, Gregorovich. I don’t know what you’re planning, if you are, indeed, planning anything. There are lives in your hands, and I expect you to take the job seriously, not using taxpayer’s money on needless frivolities. For example, the cleaning bill for the helicopter was just _excessive_ —are you even paying attention, right now?”

“I’m always paying attention,” Yassen says, double-tapping and saving the video file Alex sent him. “You are displeased with my budget reports, yes?” 

Jones slaps the folder on Yassen’s table. “The problem being that there is, apparently, no budget that’s being adhered to. Something that needs to be fixed urgently.” 

Yassen seems to consider it. He concedes with a nod. “I’ll think about it.”

“‘Think’ about it,” Jones says incredulously. “There will be no ‘thinking’ about it—this is an outright order from your superior!”

The room grows contentiously silent. Yassen lets the quiet dwell as he minimizes the windows of his workstation. He stares at her.

Jones tips up her chin in challenge.

“Are you my superior now?” Yassen asks quietly.

Jones returns his stare, although she does grind her teeth.

Their staring competition lasts until Jones purses her lips, grudgingly admitting defeat. Through the window of Yassen’s office, Crawley marks a tally under Yassen’s name on the whiteboard. The final scores remains ‘ _Gregorovich 5, Jones 2.’_

“I thought so,” Yassen says. He leans back into his chair. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Jones? No? Then have a good day.”

 _Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,_ is left unsaid. Mrs. Jones, however, does not leave. She doesn’t even cower, like most of the camera crew does in front of Gregorovich, She crosses her legs, rests her folded hands on her knees and regards Yassen under her horn-rimmed glasses with wide, steely eyes.

“Do you have children, Mr. Gregorovich?” Jones swings her leg slightly. “Raised any of your own? I presume that you don’t. Else you would have realised how utterly inappropriate your relationship with Alex is.”

“Mrs. Jones,” Yassen says. “We have just established that you are not my superior. You work for Blunt. Do not be presumptuous enough to assume that you know more than the average Intelligence worker.”

“Oh but I think I do, Mr. Gregorovich. At least when it comes to boys up to the age of twenty-four.”

“Is that so?”

“I’ve raised three of my own.”

“That’s nice.”

“They were all quite rowdy when they were Alex’s age.”

Yassen tilts his head at her. “If this is leading into some trite about the prefrontal cortex development, you can save it. I’ve already heard it.”

“I won’t bore you with that,” Jones says. “I will say, however, that you and Alex have a lot in common, don’t you think? Especially with both of your desires for John’s time and attention.”

A beat of terse silence.

“Careful,” Yassen says, tapping his finger. “Before you spout your most vapid conclusions yet.”

“When John Rider warned Alex about Harold Sayle, Alex somehow found himself involved with the Stormbreaker initiative and ended up cracking the case wide open for us. When John Rider told Alex to hide in Point Blanc, Alex fashioned a snowboard out of an ironing board and snowboarded his way out of the Alps. When John Rider faked his death, Alex tried to join Scorpia and ended up buring the place down to the ground in his rage. When John Rider told Alex not to get too close to you…” Jones shrugs. “Well, we all know what happened there.”

A visible tic forms in Yassen’s jaw. Outside, Crawley marks a tally under Jones’s name.

“Do you think Alex that badly?” Yassen asks. “That he’s nothing more but a shallow, spiteful boy?”

“No, I don’t think that at all,” Jones says. “I think that Alex is the type to let an idea settle into his head until he blinds himself with it. What he wants, he wills it into existence. I think that, once John finds out about your relationship, he will throw an absolute fit. He will rant and rage and… quite probably try to erase you from history. But ultimately, he will get over it. And when Alex sees that he’s not getting the reaction he secretly wants, he will let… _other_ ideas settle into his head.”

In the silence that follows, Jones fixes her skirt and heads towards the door. She pauses as she turns the door handle.

“He wants a mundane life, doesn’t he?” Jones asks. “The furthest away from spying you can get, I believe was what he said. Two-point-five kids? A white picket-fence?”

The door closes to Jones’s satisfied smirk, and Crawley draws five tallies under her name.

* * *

“Yes, things between Alex and I are, more often than not, physical and intense and… intensely physical.” Yassen frowns. “With furniture being broken and noise control being called—but we have our quieter moments. There are days where we breathe in each other’s presence and that is enough. Days where we spend time in each other’s company and not a single item of clothing is lost.”

* * *

_Footage not found. Events must have preceded the time of filming._

* * *

“I was the one who suggested we kept our relationship secret from John and Helen,” Yassen says. “Understandably, Alex did not disagree. In fact, he grew quite…” Yassen’s frown deepens. “… He grew quite excited at the prospect. We made love for six hours that night.”

The memory doesn’t seem to brighten Yassen up. Instead, a dip forms between his eyebrows. Yassen runs his tongue against the front of his teeth and presses both hands in front of his face.

* * *

Alex slinks into Yassen’s office suspiciously stocking-legged and wrapped in a long, black coat. “Hey,” he says, sliding into Yassen’s lap. “So Tom’s dating a girl who works in costuming at the local theatre. Guess what I managed to rent out?”

He threads his fingers through Yassen’s own and dances their hands on the belt of his coat.

“Huh?” Alex asks. “Huh?”

The coat opens to a pink, ribbon-adorned, bastardised version of a school girl uniform. It’s very fluffy, very tight, and very sheer in _very_ strategic places. Alex lifts his skirt and grinds their pixelated crotches together with a grin.

Yassen glances at the camera with an almost long-suffering look in his eyes.

Then, to the disbelief of Alex and the whole camera crew in the room, Yassen belts the coat closed and kisses Alex’s open mouth before he could protest.

“I’m feeling for something quiet today,” Yassen says. “How about we have lunch in the new French café around the corner?” He reels Alex closer by the waist. “Take a walk through the gardens? Feed pieces of white bread to the ducks?”

“I mean, we could…?” Alex hooks a leg over Yassen’s armrest, and the other over his shoulder in a remarkable show of flexibility. “But we’re kind of on a schedule with this costume, so maybe if we can hurry things up…”

“My… back hurts.” Yassen is trying very hard to keep his eyes on Alex’s face. He pats Alex’s thighs once, and only once. “I may have pulled lower back on the sixth bout yesterday. I have to take it slow. Light exercise only.”

“Light exercise.” Alex nods. “We can do light. Tantric [beep] is considered light, right?” Alex shimmies himself into a more comfortable position in Yassen’s lap and reaches for his belt. “I can do all the work. Just lie back and think of England.”

“Or,” Yassen says, firmly arranging Alex’s freshly shaved and silk-stocking leg around his hips. “If you’re not feeling French, we can try the conveyor belt sushi you were telling me about. Because my hips are giving me trouble as well. I think it will be fun. We can even grab ice cream after.”

“What conveyor belt sushi?” Alex asks. “I don’t think Tom and I’ve ever gone to a conveyor belt sushi.”

“Sorry.” Yassen shakes his head. “Must have been John who mentioned it then.”

The words are like an ice bucket chucked over Alex. He straightens in Yassen’s lap. “Dad mentioned it?”

“He did.”

“And you guys have gone together?”

“Once or twice.” Yassen considers it, before he nods. “Yes.” 

“Is that something you and dad always do? Sushi and ice cream. Like that time in Paris.”

“We didn’t get sushi in Paris,” Yassen says confusedly. “We only got ice cream at the Maison Berthillon, after the Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre…” Yassen’s hands settle on Alex’s hips. “…I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

“No,” Alex says, even though his tone and his quiet volume suggests otherwise. “No, you didn’t. But it’s always dad, isn’t it?”

Yassen thinks on his words. “…Alex?”

“Yassen, be honest with me,” Alex says. “Is dad coming back the reason you won’t [beep] me over the table right now?”

“No,” Yassen says. “John coming back is not the reason I’m not making love to you. I’m…” His face takes on a hunted look. “I’m not sure how we got here.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Alex fights back. “Are you _sure_ sure? Because you definitely weren’t complaining yesterday. You know, the day before dad was coming back?”

“It was also the day I pulled my back,” Yassen says. “And my hips. Don’t forget my hips.”

“Bull[beep],” Alex says. “We’ve [beep] [beep] when we’ve had bullet wounds in our [beep]! Back pain is nothing! And your hips!” Alex flails at Yassen’s hips. “What are you? Forty?”

Yassen combs through the sprinkle of pepper in his hair. “In a couple of years, yes.”

“Pain has never stopped us before. Why is this stopping you now?”

“Lower back pain impedes more than a bullet wound to the [beep],” Yassen says. “Why is making love right now so important to you?”

“No.” Alex reels back. “I mean—it’s not, but it also is! It’s important because this always happens!”

“That injuries always happen…?”

“The _lying_ , Yassen,” Alex says, shoving himself off the chair and stomping to the door. “The lying and the fact that you don’t want to do it because dad is coming home! And the fact that, now dad’s coming back home, you’re just going to side-line me until he’s out of town again.” 

“That’s…” Yassen leans back in his seat. “Alex... That’s not what I said.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Alex announces. “You made yourself quite clear. Why don’t you grab sushi and ice cream with dad when he comes back? Hell, go and invite Ian too! See if I care.”

“Alex.”

“Goodbye, Yassen.”

The door slams and the resounding echo only highlights the silence which follows. It is at least two minutes later until Yassen finally blinks.

“What just happened?” Yassen asks.

* * *

Alex stands by pavement, rubbing heat into his arms. “Now that I have taken the time to cool off outside, I’ve realised that I might’ve overreacted back there with Yassen,” he yells over the wind. “I’m letting the jealousy get into my head. I don’t care if Yassen used to be in love with my dad. He’s with me now. It’s hard to have people you can trust and understand in this line of work, so I’m glad they have each other.” 

A wolf-whistle interrupts the interview. Alex flips a pixelated bird at the passer-by.

“I’ve also realised that it’s bloody cold, and I left all my clothes back at Yassen’s office because that’s where I usually change back after we’ve [beep] each other silly,” Alex says. “So, I don’t have any underwear until Yassen leaves and I can break myself back in. I mean, I tried seeing if Ian had any clothes he could lend me but…”

* * *

“Ian?” Alex knocks twice before letting himself in. “Ian, are you there? Do you have any clothes I can borrow? I promise I’ll wash it before I give it back. I can explain—ah, _Christ!”_

* * *

“Yeah, so…” Alex’s cheeks turn red at the memory. “Turns out that Wolf looks really good in lingerie. I mean, I already knew that he fills out _everywhere_ but he really—” Alex slaps both cheeks with his palms. “Wow. With the whip. And Smithers too… Smithers I really wasn’t expecting but he…”

Biting his lip, Alex lingers in the memory for a couple of seconds before he lets himself shudder.

“Any memory of Ian in that office is a black hole I hope to never relive,” Alex says. “But I’m glad he’s over Yassen, I guess.”

* * *

“Oh, he’s not over Yassen,” Smithers says, buttoning up his coat. “Pretty sure he slipped on our names once or twice, around the time he started crying from the pleasure. But it’s fine. It was a one-time thing, anyway. Wolf and I just did it because we were curious. He lasted longer than we thought he would though. So kudos to him.”

* * *

Alex counts to two hundred after Yassen locks his office for a meeting. His blinds are closed, and lights are off. Yassen only does this when he’s planning to ditch home afterwards. Once the halls slip into the lull of work, Alex sneaks the lockpick from his pocket and starts working on Yassen’s door. 

He is almost at the best part—the satisfying click of a lock turning in its place—when the door swings itself open.

“Hello, Alex,” Yassen says.

“I—uhm—what?” Alex asks. “But I just saw you leave!”

“Wilby, borrowed clothes, blackmail, and digital facemasks,” Yassen says. “You know how it goes. Please come in. I think we need to talk.”

“Because only good things ever come out from that line,” Alex mutters, but he does come in, double checking that his coat is fully closed.

“Please sit,” Yassen says.

Alex shrugs but he remains standing.

“Or don’t.” Yassen sighs. “I get the feeling that a lot of context was lost in our last conversation.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Alex asks. “I’m just here for my clothes.”

This time, it’s Yassen’s turn to shrug. “Don’t know where they are.”

“Oh, really?”

“You will have your clothes when I have my answers,” Yassen announces. “Now, Alex. Am I just a rebellion against your father?”

“Am I just a jailbait stand-in for _my_ father?” Alex throws back.

“Of course, not,” Yassen says straightaway. “Is that what you think?”

“What?” Alex says, losing his momentum. “No. Yes. Maybe.”

“You’re Alex Rider,” Yassen says. “You’ve been a pain in my ass since I’ve met you. Yet, I’ve wanted you ever since you dragged me back from retirement by blowing up my yacht.”

“That was an accident.”

Yassen slants him a sceptical look.

Alex deflates like a popped balloon. “It was though,” he says. “I meant to blow up the hull, not the engine.”

Yassen takes Alex’s hands and tugs him closer. “I’m sure you did.” He gently presses a kiss on the side of Alex’s head, burying his nose into the tuft of blonde hair. “And I’m sure you meant to blow up the whole boat in the process.”

“Accident,” Alex mutters, as he turns his head into Yassen’s kisses.

Yassen’s kisses has the effect of petting a frazzled cat into calmness. Alex lets himself become more pliable as Yassen coaxes Alex further into his hold.

Yassen hums a placating noise. “You’re Alex Rider,” he says again. “You may look like your father. You are as stubborn as your father, but that’s where it all stops. You have your mother in you, and tiny bits of the world only privy to you. It makes you—yourself, I suppose. You are funny like Alex Rider. You care too much like Alex Rider. You cannot control your mouth even if the world depended on it like Alex Rider.”

“Hey.” 

“You snore like Alex Rider. You wake up horribly in the morning like Alex Rider. It’s very hard to describe,” Yassen says. “But you take up… the most distinct shape in my mind. I would recognise you even with all my senses gone. I would want to be with you even with all my senses gone.”

“Oh,” Alex says, but he does melt into Yassen’s hold. “Okay, then.”

Yassen noses his way deeper into Alex’s hair. He presses a long, savouring kiss against the nearest patch of skin he can reach. “I’m sorry that you felt like your father’s replacement. Did I make you feel that way?” he murmurs apologetically.

“No,” Alex says quietly. “It was just me… overthinking things again.”

“It’s only you for me,” Yassen says. “No one else, Alex.”

“… Say it again.”

Yassen smiles against Alex’s skin. “No one else, Alex. Just you.”

“No other jailbait you mean.”

“No other jailbait,” Yassen agrees.

“That’s just a joke,” Alex says a tad too loudly, “I’d like to have on record that I was wilfully employed for fulltime work by MI6 at the lawful age of sixteen and not a day sooner in accordance with government regulations—”

Yassen interrupts him by pulling Alex into a kiss.

It is remarkably a softer kiss than what the camera crew is used to—gentler and more leisurely. It’s, frankly, quite refreshing. Between the office and the production crew, too many people have seen Alex Rider’s naked bare arse. Almost like it’s the worst ever-kept national secret at this point. But the knowledge is dangerous, of course. The information can get you killed if Yassen Gregorovich ever gets a whiff of it.

“I’m sorry too,” Yassen says. “I let Jones get to me.”

“Was it during the budget review?” Alex snuggles closer into Yassen’s shoulder. “Crawley told me I lost twenty quid after the budget review.”

“Never again,” Yassen vows.

“I hope so.” 

“You will get your money back.”

“It’s only you for me too, by the way,” Alex says. “No one here trusts me to know myself, yet they trust me enough to throw me into the deep end when it suits them. I want to be with you, Yassen. The rest is something we can work out on the way.”

Yassen’s face undoes itself when it softens. His face transforms into a subtle expression that betrays the joy coiling underneath. He brushes back Alex’s fringe. He touches the curve on Alex’s chin. He kisses Alex’s nose, his cheeks, and his chin.

“That sounds good to me,” Yassen says.

Then, his hand strokes their way down Alex’s side and fiddles with the ribbons on Alex’s stockings. “Did you wear this for me?” Yassen asks. 

His voice has deepened into something silky. He’s watching Alex with a gaze that’s turned sultry and voluptuous. The air has turned warmer, and someone amps up the air conditioning in the room.

Alex swallows, his throat bobbing up and down. He lets himself be pawed by Yassen’s hands as Yassen pulls him closer. “Maybe,” he says.

Someone in the production team coughs, as if to remind them that they are not alone in the room, even though that has never stopped them before. The camera crew is unfortunately ignored.

“What’s this school uniform you have on?” Yassen asks. “You must be cold.”

“It’s a magical girl inspired school-uniform,” Alex says. “You heard of magical girl anime where these girls transform and save the world? Like Sailor Moon? Tokyo Mew Mew? Shugo Chara? Cardcaptor Sakura? Puella Magi Madoka Magica?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Yassen says. “You look very pretty, though. I’d so very much like to make you mewl.”

“Yeah, well,” Alex mutters, his cheek flaming red. “That wasn’t what the show was called.”

“Hmm,” Yassen says, playing with the hems of Alex’s skirts. Yassen doesn’t even have the decency to pretend like he's paying attention.

“The uniform was a bitch to put on, though.”

A ribbon has come loose until Yassen’s fiddling. “Oops,” Yassen says, not even apologetic in the slightest bit. He starts moving to the ribbons closer to Alex’s ass. Another ribbon falls.

The door slams open.

“Hey, Yas, I’m back!” John Rider sing-songs. “Want to grab some lunch? You’ve seen Alex anywhere…?”

Yassen and Alex, in all his ruffled glory, freezes, Yassen’s hands are cupping Alex’s ass, a fact which John doesn’t miss. John pauses, pursing his lips.

The temperature in the room drops like the snowy alps of Point Blanc.

Yassen’s face has shifted into a myriad of expressions, unusual for the stony man. First there is sheepishness, then, smugness and a hint of rebellion. Then there is acceptance and finally, wistfulness. Perhaps for the fulfilling domestic-slash-one-off-hitman-job life he might have lived with Alex if John hadn’t ended him so soon. A humble life with Alex shoving his cold feet under his shins at night and stealing half the blanket. Alas, Yassen's time has run out.

“Dad, I can explain,” Alex says.

John slides a knife out of his boot.

Alex springs in front of Yassen. “Wait! Dad—No!”

* * *

“I would consider Yassen and I great friends, yeah,” John Rider says to the camera. “Aside from Helen, I would even consider Yassen as my closest friend at this point. We had a rough patch during the beginning, around the time Yassen found out I was working for MI6. But we managed to hash it out like most people in our line of work do—through near death experiences, hits, sabotage, and counter-hits.”

Footage cuts to Yassen and John at the pub, playing darts with a dozen throwing knives as they chat about their work. The other pub patrons are cowering under their tables.

“He could have shot me at Sayle’s compound at one point, but he didn’t out of professional and personal courtesy of our past,” John says. “In return, I always give Yassen a heads up if we’re about to raid one of his units. Yassen’s not particularly attached to his employers—so he’s always gone by the time we arrived. So yes, I do consider Yassen and I good friends. I trust him with my life, and I trusted him enough to sign over Alex’s training to him once he started working at MI6.”

John’s grin is charming. Disarming. Light bounces off John’s teeth and shines back into the camera.

“I’m going to kill him,” John says pleasantly.

* * *

“I want a quiet life one day,” Yassen says. “Try my hand at carving detailed furniture or writing a novel. One or two dogs. Maybe a cat on my lap. Children running outside. Grow old with my face turned towards the sun. I would like Alex to be there. Ideally, he would have left his life with MI6 behind, but I highly doubt that to be the case. MI6 is more of a parasite than a ravenous tapeworm. If Alex is amenable to it, however, we can even share a rocking chair. I assume that would be the natural progression, since Alex is a combination of what people would describe as a ‘snuggle monster’ and a ‘blanket hog.’”

A small, sweet smile appears on his face.

A second later, a red dot appears on his shoulder. It hovers over his neck.

Yassen ducks as the seat behind him explodes into a shower of fabric.

* * *

“So telling dad went better than I thought it would,” Alex says. “A broken rib for dad. A fractured arm and a whole line of stitches for Yassen. A couple thousand dollar fine in property damage, which I don’t have to pay for, so thank goodness for that. There were only a couple of warning shots—at least, I hope they were warning shots. Dad just smiles whenever I ask—but they’re always going for non-lethal spots, so I guess everything’s okay. Yassen's really fast, anyway. He has a sixth sense for these kinds of things. There were no bombs attached to the bottom of Yassen’s car. No hidden gun traps in Yassen’s office, and no hits placed out in the dark web.”

Footage cuts to Alex drawing puppies and clouds with a sharpie, accidentally scrawling over Ian’s message to Yassen on his cast. A hint of tongue pokes out as Alex concentrates on his drawing. Visibly endeared, Yassen kisses his cheek.

Another footage shows Alex and Yassen holding hands as they strolled through the park.

As if in sync with the production team, Alex runs his hands down the side of his face, chasing the ghost of Yassen’s touch.

“So, yeah. Overall, dad took it pretty well,” Alex says. “I still haven’t told mum, though. I've been thinking about it all month, and I was kind of banking on Yassen being out of the country when I do finally tell her. Mum's a nurse, but even though she's a healer, there’s a reason mum and dad get along very well, you know. It’s because they’re a little… Well…”

* * *

“Oh, they were warning shots,” Helen Rider says. “They were just not from John.”

Reminiscent of her son, the camera zooms in as Helen Rider smiles at the camera.


End file.
